One Portion of Hash Browns and a Burned Control Box

I slept through the night, which at this age feels less like a normal biological function and more like winning a modest sweepstakes.

I woke up at four, then five, then six. At six I knew the sleeping portion of the program had concluded, so I picked up my phone and did what all emotionally balanced adults do first thing in the morning: stared into the glowing rectangle until I was willing to participate in life.

I was awake. Not groggy, exactly. Just sluggish.

Lately I have replaced morning coffee with morning Gatorade. I cannot defend this choice except to say that it appeals to me, and at fifty-six I have decided that not every beverage requires a congressional hearing.

I drank the Gatorade, took my medicine, showered, and then stood around cooling off for a few minutes. I always have to do that before I put hot, sticky clothes onto a freshly showered body.

Then it was time to play one of my favorite recurring household games:

Where’s the bra?

The difficulty level changes every time. Sometimes it is in the laundry. Sometimes it is under something. Sometimes I am looking directly at it while accusing the entire house of consuming my belongings.

I found it eventually. It was right there.

I got dressed and noticed that my clothes are entering an awkward phase. I have lost enough weight for them to look oversized and frumpy, but not enough for my body to have settled neatly into the next size. Shirts that fit my shoulders cling to my belly; shirts that accommodate my belly appear to have been issued for temporary shelter.

Nevertheless, I had work to do—and a well repair to supervise remotely.

The well had stopped cooperating the day before. The repair company said eight people were ahead of us and promised to come the next day. Since I had to work and my daughter did not, I gave her one assignment: remain close enough to the house to be there when the well men arrived.

I was not holding her hostage. I told her she could go to the ice house five minutes down the road as long as she answered her phone and could be home within fifteen minutes. I simply needed one visible human being on the property because my husband keeps tools in the shed and apparently I am the only person who has watched enough crime television to understand opportunity.

She wanted a two-hour arrival window.

I wanted water.

I called the well company. The repairman said he was twenty minutes away. I explained where everything was and told him to park near the cabin because it was closer to the well. Then I called my daughter and delivered the good news.

She called back to ask what kind of company I had hired because the men were driving “shitty trucks like Levi’s.”

I asked the only question that mattered.

Are they fixing the well?

They were.

Excellent. They may drive those shitty trucks in peace. I have used this company for twenty-six years, and they charge about one-fifth of what some of the polished-truck people charge. I am not paying extra for coordinated vehicle branding. I need water to come out of the faucet.

Before leaving home, I had also sent my daughter a short chore list: clean the litter box, take out the kitchen trash, move my clothes into the dryer, and wash the dishes. Just normal things that needed to be done while I was at work.

I knew she was extra mad about it.

On my way to work, I realized I had walked one dog and forgotten the other two. I was already ten minutes down the road. Could I have called home and delegated? Yes. But morning dog duty was mine, and nothing prevented me from handling it, so I turned around and went back.

This is one of the great injustices of motherhood: you may be surrounded by people irritated by their responsibilities while you quietly turn the car around to complete yours.

Once the dogs had received the services promised under our domestic labor agreement, I left again and bought breakfast.

I ate one portion of hash browns.

Not a pint. Not a quart. A portion.

They forgot the barbecue sauce I specifically requested. Fortunately, I located one stray ketchup packet in the car—an archaeological discovery from a previous meal—and used it because I am resilient.

Then the tirzepatide began tirzeping.

After approximately twelve fried potato fragments, my stomach announced that death was imminent. So I sat in the car outside the nursing facility, allowing my digestive system to review its grievances before I entered the building.

Eventually I felt better and went inside to do my actual job, which remained deeply inconsiderate of everything else I had already accomplished that morning.

Later, I called my daughter and asked whether the well men were still there.

“They left,” she said.

I asked what they had told her.

“I don’t know. They just left, so I left.”

That was all the information I got from her.

I called the company myself. One of the wires inside the control box had burned almost completely through. Rather than rewire an aging box, they replaced the entire thing. They tested the pump and the rest of the system, and everything else was good.

The pump was good.

Those may be the four most beautiful words available to a rural homeowner, because a control box is an expense, but a five-hundred-foot well pump is a financial hostage situation.

The repairman recommended adding a storage tank. We have discussed one before. A storage tank would give us a reserve, reduce strain on the system, and provide comfort during the next episode of Well-Based Emotional Terrorism.

It would also cost money.

So naturally I began considering alternative revenue streams.

Could I sell feet pictures for a storage tank?

This was not the direction I expected the morning to take. But neither did I expect to replace coffee with Gatorade, get scolded over repairmen’s trucks, nearly perish from one portion of hash browns, or discover that our electrical control box had attempted to cremate itself.

Life is going to irritate me anyway.

I might as well monetize it.